fifty-shades-of-grey

Kate and I concentrate on packing, sharing a bottle of cheap red wine as we do. WhenI finally go to bed, having almost finished packing my room, I feel calmer. The physicalactivity of boxing everything up has been a welcome distraction, and I’m tired. I want agood night’s sleep. I snuggle into my bed and am soon asleep.Paul is back from Princeton before he sets off for New York to start an internship with afinancing company. He follows me round the store all day asking me for a date. It’s annoying.“Paul, for the hundredth time, I have a date this evening.”“No, you don’t, you’re just saying that to avoid me. You’re always avoiding me.”Yes… you’d think you’d take the hint.“Paul, I never thought it was a good idea to date the boss’s brother.”“You’re finishing here on Friday. You’re not working tomorrow.”“And I’ll be in Seattle as of Saturday and you’ll be in New York soon. We couldn’t getmuch further apart if we tried. Besides, I do have a date this evening.”“With José?”“No.”“Who then?”“Paul… oh.” My sigh is exasperated. He’s not going to let this go. “Christian Grey.” Icannot help the annoyance in my voice. But it does the trick. Paul’s mouth falls open, andhe gapes at me, struck dumb. Humph – even his name renders people speechless.“You have a date with Christian Grey,” he says finally, once he’s over the shock. Disbeliefis evident in his voice.“Yes.”“I see.” Paul looks positively crestfallen, stunned even, and a very small part resentsthat he should find this a surprise. My inner goddess does too. She makes a very vulgarand unattractive gesture at him with her fingers.After that, he ignores me, and at five I am out of the door, pronto.Kate has lent me two dresses and two pairs of shoes for tonight and for graduationtomorrow. I wish I could feel more enthused about clothes and make an extra effort, butclothes are just not my thing. What is your thing, Anastasia? Christian’s softly spokenquestion haunts me. Shaking my head and endeavoring to quell my nerves, I decide on theplum-colored sheath dress for this evening. It’s demure and vaguely business-like – afterall, I am negotiating a contract.I shower, shave my legs and underarms, wash my hair, and then spend a good half-hourdrying it so that it falls in soft waves to my breasts and down my back. I slip a comb in tokeep one side off my face and apply mascara and some lip-gloss. I rarely wear make-up – itintimidates me. None of my literary heroines had to deal with make-up – maybe I’d knowmore about it if they had. I slip on the plum-colored stilettos that match the dress, and I’mready by six-thirty.“Well?” I ask Kate.She grins.